


it's neither deep nor tragic

by Rrrowr



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Future, First Time, M/M, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written to encourage Daunt to finish the fic that inspired this!</p><p>Premise: Chris and Stiles are survivors on a revenge trip. For the most part, Chris leads the way, and seeing Stiles become increasingly amoral, takes issue with how much of a problem this <i>isn't</i> for his conscious. It all comes to a head, however, when Stiles comes back to him after having done something that Chris absolutely cannot condone.</p><p>Okay so honestly this is just spanking porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's neither deep nor tragic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



Even pinned face down to the bed with his wrists twisted up behind him, Stiles struggles. He gets Chris' full weight bearing down at the small of his back, and then the first smack comes hard across the back of his thighs. It makes him go rigid at first before he begins to thrash, but Chris just keeps on until the thrashing turns into Stiles angling to meet the downward arc of Chris' hand, until his arguments fade into sobs fade into muffled whimpers against the comforter — until Chris has to stop because he's exerted himself too much but he can't _stop_ so he cups Stiles' ass and feels how hot it is against his palm.

"Do you understand yet?" Chris asks, voice shaky and a little breathless as his fingers trail upward through the crease of Stiles' ass, teasing. "Do you understand why I had to do this?"

Stiles' breath hitches and his body arches to follow Chris' fingers, to keep them between those red hot cheeks. Stiles can't go far but he tries — oh he tries — and fails to get his knees up on the edge of the bed.

Chris clicks his tongue in scolding, and Stiles drops his feet back down to the ground and says, "fuck," as he squirms.

"You weren't doing as you were told, Stiles," Chris says. "I told you to stay here. I told you to stay safe."

Cruelly perhaps, Chris scratches his nails across the expanses of skin that have the most marked blush, and Stiles sucks in an abrupt cry — all breath and sound at once.

"And how do you repay my concern?" Chris continues. "By going out! By fucking the _very_ werewolf we just finished interrogating!" Chris snarls, punctuating his anger with a few more strikes.

"I'm sorry!" Stiles shouts, toes scraping against the carpet as he tries to scoot up on the bed to escape Chris' hand. He's twisting against Chris' grip, raw eyes shining as they search Chris' face out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"You'd say anything, I think, to get me to tell you that what you did today was okay," Chris tells him. "How can I trust you after this, Stiles?"

"You can," Stiles argues at once, curling toward Chris as much as he can. "You can trust me. I'll be good. I promise, I'll do what you want. I'll be good."

Chris lets Stiles' wrists go. He lets Stiles turn onto his side with a relieved gasp. He lets Stiles' arms encircle his waist. He lets Stiles climb on him and whisper, "I'll be good. I'll be so good, Chris. Please— please—"

When Stiles rocks down with a hiss, Chris realizes that they're both hard and that's Stiles' backside that's burning so hot that Chris can feel it through his jeans. When Chris grabs that backside with both hands, intending to throw Stiles off of him, Stiles curses and clings harder.

"Sorry," Stiles gasps. "Sorry I just... It felt—"

He sounds like a teenager still, Chris thinks.

"I'm all clean now, yeah?" Stiles whispers, like it's a secret. Perhaps it is — a secret they share, knowing how Stiles stood in the shower and washed away the evidence of his tryst and then let Chris tend to all those shallow wounds. "You could put your mark on me, couldn't you? Give me something to remember this by?"

"This isn't enough a reminder for you?" Chris asks, squeezing his hands again.

Stiles makes a startled little sound and presses his face into Chris' shoulder, shaking as his hips jolt forward, as his dick smears wet over Chris' belly. "Come on. Don't make me say it," he pleads.

"I'm not going to do anything if you can't even say it," Chris informs him flatly.

"Dude, come on," Stiles whines, but all the same, his mouth opens up against the hard edge of Chris' jaw.

Chris jerks halfheartedly away from the warm, wet panting breath that moves across his stubbled cheek. He's not an idiot; he knows what Stiles is asking for. What Chris doesn't know is why he isn't telling Stiles no. What Chris doesn't know is why he grits his teeth and breathes in a tight, slow breath through his nose so that he doesn't doing anything rash when Stiles' teeth nip sharply along the shell of his ear.

"Want me to say it?" Stiles whispers. It sounds like a rumble in Chris' ear — sounds like a growl, sounds like a wolf. "I want," he says. "I want you..." He sighs as his mouth traces down to the lobe of Chris' ear and then moans as he takes it between his teeth and sucks.

One of his hands slides down the length of Chris' arms and laces with their fingers. Together they grab Stiles' ass and hold and hold, and Stiles' back straightens and rolls, pressing back into their combined touch. Chris gets Stiles' shuddering, hitching whimber right in his ear.

"Fu-fuck me," Stiles says. "I wanna know what you feel like, okay? Want you inside me," he says and slides back a bit, nosing across Chris' cheekbone.

Their mouths are so close now that it wouldn't take half a second for Chris to angle the right way for them to be...

"You're inside every other part of me already," Stiles goes on to say. "Don't you want to? Please, Chris..."

His promise comes again. He slips it into the air between them just after Chris turns toward him finally: "I'll be so, so good."

Chris gives in like a starving man. He feels like he wants to devour Stiles, and the consuming need makes him tilt Stiles back toward the bed while they kiss. He wants to cover Stiles — to shield him and cage him at once — but only manages to half-tuck Stiles underneath him before he's sliding his hand under Stiles knee, turning his grip and pushing Stiles' leg up.

"Get me open," Chris says, voice giving no quarter, and Stiles moans into Chris' mouth and his hands go down to Chris' fly. Stiles unbuttons him, unzips him carefully because they're still kissing and he's not looking, and pushes Chris' pants off his hips before sliding his hands in to pull his dick out and stroke it.

Without even waiting for Chris to say so, Stiles sort of flails his hand out toward the duffel bag that he'd dumped by the pillows earlier. He finds the lube that he'd used with the wolf and slicks it over his fingers and goes right back to getting Chris' dick prepared.

Chris is beyond the point of caring really. He breathes heavy in the cradle of Stiles' neck, and he bites shallow marks into Stiles' skin, leaving behind spots of red before he leans back just enough to get his legs under him, to get his hands on Stiles thighs and press them both to Stiles' chest. His knees skid on the edge of the bed, so he gets his arms under Stiles and heaves him higher on the bed. Stiles makes a startled sound, near delighted, half terrified, and then kisses him, hungry and eager.

He palms Stiles' ass because he can, because it's still red and warm and because it's starting to show the welts from the impact of Chris' wedding ring. When he spreads Stiles open, his dick slips in the gap made by his fingers and rubs down against Stiles' gaping, twitching hole.

"There," Stiles gasps, one hand going down automatically to help Chris in. "There. Please, Chris, come on—"

Chris would tell Stiles that he doesn't have to plead anymore, but he likes it too much to do so. He likes feeling like he has at least a little power in this, when so much of Stiles' existence throws his world into a spin.

He pushes in fast — too fast to be gentle, and in two thrusts, three perhaps, they're snug together. He's bottomed out, and Stiles is clenched tight around him — breath caught into silence — and his ass is like fire against the hard curve of Chris' hips.

Stiles' brows screw together, and he bites his lip to stifle a whimper. He squirms, squirms squirms like he's trying to see how much of Chris he can feel. "Chris," he says — no more pleading apparently. Saying Chris' name just to say it.

Rearing back, Chris fits his hands against the back of Stiles' knees and holds him like that, all folded up tight just like Chris wants him — exposed and unable to fight back. He fucks him then, with steady strong thrusts that gradually quicken, and Stiles' voice whines out tight as he curls his fingers in the bed spread, against his forehead, against his mouth.

He looks vulnerable, Chris decides.

It looks good on him.

"Come on, Stiles," Chris says, adopting for the moment the same wheedling tone Stiles uses so often. "Hold your legs for me."

"Shit," Stiles replies but does as he's told — oh, Chris could get used to this obedience — looping his arms behind his knees and linking his fingers

Chris rubs his palms over the underside of Stiles' thighs, hard enough to elicit a faint pink from all that pale pale skin, and then he reaches for one of Stiles' feet and pushes down. It tilts Stiles a little, rolls him higher on the curve of his spine. Though he chuckles a little at the sight of Stiles' dick leaking so profusely, Chris doesn't touch it, doesn't bother. He rubs his thumb over the swollen rim of Stiles' hole and then over the crease between thigh and buttock and then — quickly, sharply — smacks the back of Stiles' hip. Stiles jolts with a cry, fingers clenching together so tightly that his knuckles to white, and Chris fucks him for a few more hard thrusts before pausing and smacking him again.

"Shit shit shit," Stiles hisses

They go like that for a few more passes — with Chris switching hands back and forth until Stiles is trembling, until his body is so tight around Chris' dick that it feels like a vice — like Stiles is trying to suck him in. Then Chris presses down against him, weighs down on Stiles. He might be crushing Stiles just a little. He might be making it hard to breathe and harder to move, but all the same, he holds Stiles' shoulders and fucks him like that too. He fucks Stiles so hard that every thrust must be like getting spanked again.

Stiles cries.

He kisses Chris' mouth without getting anything back and cries, "So good. I'll be good, Chris. Chris — ah, ah, Chris, so good."

Chris' pattern fractures as he gets close. He can feel it building in his spine, and he slides in as deep as he can and then circles deeper, crowding Stiles into a tighter curl.

"Good," Chris agrees. "You're good."

Sobbing, Stiles' whole body shudders like he's fighting the inevitable. He twists and his calves squeeze around Chris' shoulders before he finally comes.

"Good," Chris repeats, and Stiles dick twitches feebly. Chris kisses him then, biting at his mouth and sucking at his lips while he fucks into Stiles' hole — gaping now, begging to be filled — and spills as deep as he can.

Deeper, he hopes, than that wolf managed. 

Stiles has his eyes closed when Chris leans back. He's breathing fast and heavy, and he makes a soft noise of complaint when Chris slips entirely away. Not sleeping, but definitely recovering.

Chris goes to his luggage and digs around for one of the smaller compartments for the bag of wet wipes and cleans off his dick before grabbing another for Stiles. Gently, Chris loosens the grip of Stiles' fingers so he can let his legs down, and wipes down the mess on his belly — though Chris doesn't deny himself the opportunity to mouth at the very fragile stretch of skin below Stiles' breastbone

There's a thin spatter of come under his tongue before he moves away again.

The rest gets cleaned away.

Stiles goes easy when Chris turns him onto his belly. Only the barest of sounds happens when Chris spreads Stiles' cheeks open to see how much damage he caused. There's none that he can see, thank god, but Stiles is all red around his entrance and a thin trail of come leaks out. Chris presses the wipe against that trail and scoops it up with his finger, sliding the cool cloth over Stiles' hole as gently as he can. Stiles moves — half trying to get away, half trying to give Chris room.

With even more tenderness than Chris thought he was capable of anymore, Chris pushes a finger into Stiles — just to see, nothing more — and Stiles' face scrunches up in discomfort. His finger comes away clean. It's mostly lube and no blood, which was the point, and Chris gives Stiles' hole another cool wipe before going to the restroom to toss the wipes.

He avoids looking at himself in the mirror. He doesn't want to think about what he probably looks like. He's not sure which would be worse — seeing how much tonight has affected him or seeing how little.

Stiles is curled up into a ball in the center of the bed when Chris gets back to him — sleeping finally from the look of it. Chris starts untucking the bedcovers from both sides, throwing one side over Stiles before climbing in alongside him and pulling the other side of the bed cover over them both.

He presses his nose and his mouth against the nape of Stiles' neck. Last week, he'd wanted to do exactly this but hadn't dared to even acknowledge it. Today, he does it and Stiles turns in his arms and wraps around him, blankets and all.

Chris sighs and Stiles echoes it.

Chris covers Stiles neck and squeezes, and Stiles hums and squeezes his arms around Chris' chest.

"Go to sleep, Stiles," Chris says.

He feels Stiles smile against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Also found [here](http://rrrowr.tumblr.com/post/31975084715) on tumblr!


End file.
